


Bad Things Happen in the Dominion

by Elycien



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Abuse, Bad Things Happen Bingo, F/M, Humiliation, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-09-23 12:58:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17080736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elycien/pseuds/Elycien
Summary: Vorta-centric fills from the "Bad Things Happen Bingo" challenge on Tumblr. Multiple characters and pairings but largely focused on Weyoun and Weyoun/Dukat. Warnings will be added as needed. Latest chapter: Cry Into Chest.





	1. Forcibly Stripped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weyoun is falsely accused of treason against the Dominion, and as punishment is stripped of his rank - and his very personhood.

He’s not sure who betrayed him. Perhaps Keevan, whose promotion has been a thorn in Weyoun’s side from the moment it happened, who has plenty of motive to set up false evidence against the ambassador. He doubts it’s Kilana, who has been a surprising ally in these last few months on Cardassia, and it can’t be Damar, who lacks both the subtlety and the necessary knowledge of Dominion procedure to bring a false accusation of treason that holds any weight. No, it must be a Vorta, but it’s difficult to narrow down much farther, because if he’s honest most of his staff would benefit from his removal in some way. Even the ones who like him are still ambitious. It’s the way things go in the diplomatic corps.

In the end it doesn’t matter, because whoever his enemy is, they’ve quite thoroughly undermined him. When he is accused before the Founder it is clear that no one, least of all Her, intends to give him a chance to redeem himself. His guilt is written in stone, in the records which show beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s been passing information to the Federation and conspiring against the Founders. Except he knows he is innocent.

It’s not a private affair. Keevan announces the charges brought against Weyoun, smug satisfaction in his voice, when almost all the administrative staff in charge of Cardassia is present - Kilana, Keevan, Damar, the scattering of Cardassian and Vorta adjutants present at all such meetings, and of course the silent Jem’Hadar guards stationed at the door. And whoever masterminded this scheme against him has clearly waited until one of the rare times that the Founder Herself met with the rest of them, silent and imposing at the head of the table.

Only Dukat is absent, which gives Weyoun a spark of hope - Dukat is the highest-ranked Cardassian officer, and is almost certainly on Weyoun’s side. He’s dealing with a military matter, but if Weyoun can stall long enough for him to get here, perhaps his sentence will be overturned.

Still, everything is proceeding very quickly. After the accusation the Founder merely signals with one hand, and two of the Jem’Hadar drag Weyoun out of his seat, force him to his knees in front of Her. She cups her hand under his chin and tilts his face back, and he can hardly breathe knowing She’s touching him.

“My loyal Weyoun,” She purrs. “At least I thought you were. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Founder,” he breathes. “Please, believe me… I would never do such a thing. I could never betray you. Allow me to prove myself, atone…”

“The evidence against you has already been brought to me,” the Founder snaps. “I have no interest in listening to your lies. I would like to hear your confession. And if you are honest and contrite…” She pauses, considering him, and he feels so small. “Perhaps an arrangement could be made, taking into consideration your many lifetimes of loyal service.” 

“I…” Weyoun is rendered briefly speechless at this offer, trying to decide what to do. He is innocent; he knows this. He has not seen the evidence against him that was brought to the Founder, and if his lie does not match his accuser’s story he is certain it won’t end well for him. But there’s a possibility he can be spared, if he plays along; at least, he wants to believe that. 

Then the door slides open and Dukat walks in, freezing as he takes in the scene before him, and Weyoun stares at him helplessly. If he makes his false confession now, there’s no way Dukat will help him. And… Dukat will believe that Weyoun truly betrayed him.

“I didn’t do it,” Weyoun murmurs, staring in anguish back at Dukat. “I swear on the life of my progenitor. I would never betray you.”

Her arm flows into something long and whiplike, strikes Weyoun across the face and leaves a trickle of blood down his cheek. He turns his gaze back on Her reluctantly, eyes wide. “But you _have_ betrayed us,” the Founder says, Her words clipped and severe. “And you will answer for that crime.”

Weyoun can _feel_ Dukat’s presence behind him, watching and saying nothing. He winces. “My Founder, _please…_ ”

“As of this moment, you are stripped of your rank and name,” She spits, and the two Jem’Hadar haul him to his feet. He struggles, hearing himself continue to quietly plead with the implacable Founder as they begin tearing off the jacket of his uniform. Being stripped of his rank means losing everything. His name, his clothes, eventually his life - but not until he’s lived long enough to thoroughly comprehend the misery of what he’s lost.

After they get his outer jacket off he tries to twist away from them and at least reclaim the dignity of undressing himself, but they don’t let him, holding fast to his arms. Weyoun struggles helplessly as the tunic of his uniform is unceremoniously torn off, exposing his slender chest, heaving with exertion. There’s no point in resisting, he _knows_ that, but he can’t help kicking uselessly as they strip off his pants, even pulling off his undergarments, leaving him nothing to cover himself. There’s nothing remotely sexual in the way they quickly and efficiently disrobe him but he still shudders at their rough hands against his skin, on his hips and sliding down his thighs. If they’d only let him undress himself it would have been that much easier to bear.

He’s left standing there before his god and his former colleagues, naked and exposed. Instinctively he pulls one hand to his chest to cover the sensitive ridges at the center of his breastbone, lowering the other to hide his groin, but one of the guards hits him on the side of the head so hard his ears start ringing, and they roughly pull his hands behind his back. Weyoun understands. He’s no longer a person in the eyes of the Dominion, and he has no say over what happens to his body from this point on. Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to bear the scrutiny of his former subordinates, of _Dukat,_ with his chest bared and his slit on display.

This can’t be happening. Not to him. This thorough elimination of his very personhood is the type of punishment reserved for only the most abhorrent Vorta criminals, the unrepentant blasphemers and heretics who commit unforgivable crimes against the Founders. Perhaps he would have earned such a punishment if he had truly betrayed the Dominion, but it’s agonizing to know that someone else in this room is lying to the Founders, and that he is paying the price for it. He sags in the guards’ tight grip, would drop to his knees if they let him. “Founder, I beg you…”

She does not look at him as She lashes him again for daring to speak, hitting him across his bared chest. He flinches back and bites his lip to prevent himself from whimpering as the blow glances the edge of his sensitive chest ridges. One of the guards locks his wrists in shackles behind his back and then shoves him to the ground, and he curls in on himself, feeling the sting of the welt across his chest and wishing he could disappear.

Someone else steps forward and it’s Keevan, of _course_ it is, who bows his head to accept the Founder’s blessing and his new post as Alpha Quadrant ambassador. It’s not exactly a confirmation that it was Keevan who betrayed him, but it’s the strongest evidence yet. Keevan glances down at his cowering, naked form, smug triumph glinting in his pale eyes, and spits contemptuously on Weyoun’s body. “What shall I do with this, Founder?” he asks, nudging Weyoun with his foot.

The Founder doesn’t look at him. “I have no use for it here,” She declares. “Have it sent to processing.” 

There are many uses for a Vorta that has failed to serve its original purpose. Weyoun shudders, an icy, visceral horror gripping his heart. He opens his mouth to plead for his life one more time, knowing he has nothing to lose, but terror seems to have closed up his throat and he can barely breathe, let alone speak. The Jem’Hadar guards yank him to his feet and begin to push him out of the room, not seeming to care if he stumbles along on his own feet or is simply dragged. He’s trembling too hard to resist, struggling to at least stay upright and walk on his own. He passes Dukat, meets his eyes and manages a single whisper - “Please…”

But the realization hits him, in that single glance and the way Dukat stares coldly at him in return. Dukat knows. He was a part of this betrayal from the beginning. How long had he planned this as Weyoun offered him more and more of his trust, his body?

Weyoun summons up one last reserve of strength to spit in the traitorous Cardassian’s face, and feels a fleeting ghost of triumph at Dukat’s startled, almost shamed expression. Then the door slides shut behind him and Weyoun lowers his head, heart pounding thunderously with fear as he resigns himself to his fate.


	2. Broken Ribs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dukat discovers that Weyoun is injured after a private meeting with the Founder.

As Weyoun took off his shirt, sitting on the edge of Dukat’s bed, Dukat found his gaze drawn to a dark purple bruise blooming along the side of the Vorta’s ribcage, his orbital ridges drawing together in an expression of perplexed concern. “Did something happen?”

“Hm?” Weyoun tilted his head back to look over his shoulder at Dukat, apparently uncomprehending. “Did what happen?”

Dukat sat up in bed and scooted over to sit next to him. “You’re bruised.” He’d left marks on the Vorta himself, of course, but nothing so large or painful-looking. Now that he knew to look for it he could see that Weyoun was moving gingerly, careful of the injury. Dukat reached out to very gently brush his fingers over the Vorta’s bruised ribs, only for Weyoun to jerk back more sharply than he anticipated, a soft hiss of pain escaping his lips. Dukat’s frown deepened. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened, Dukat.” Weyoun’s voice was soft and clipped, unusual for the usually eloquent ambassador. “I’m fine. I’m _tired._ I just want to go to bed--”

“When you lie to me, you usually have the courtesy of doing it better than that.” Dukat gripped Weyoun’s shoulder, started to turn him to face him and then thought better of it when Weyoun winced again at the motion. “Tell me. Was it Damar? If he’s laid his hands on you…” He’d been well aware of his second’s antipathy for Weyoun, but he _trusted_ Damar, and had discounted his threats as mere posturing. If he’d been wrong, if Damar had actually hurt Weyoun…

“Of course not,” Weyoun said impatiently. “I told you nothing is wrong. It’s only a bruise, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. If you insist on interrogating me I will return to my own quarters.”

Dukat shook his head and opened his arms. “Come here.”

Hesitantly, Weyoun accepted the invitation, leaning into Dukat and letting the Cardassan enfold him in his arms. At the slightest pressure against his side he stiffened, and Dukat tensed too, gingerly feeling the injury. “You’re not all right,” he murmured. “You have a broken rib. Maybe two.” Weyoun let out a small irritated growl at the way he’d been tricked and tried to pull away, and Dukat let him, but grasped his shoulders to keep him close. “What happened?” he asked again, insistent. Weyoun said nothing, and a terrible suspicion began to form in Dukat’s mind, recalling the female Changeling’s arrival on the station, her private conference with Weyoun earlier in the day. “...She hurt you.”

“I told you it was none of your business,” Weyoun snapped, trying to twist out of Dukat’s grasp, but his injury hampered his movements and Dukat was easily able to keep hold of him.

“At least let me take you to the infirmary.”

“No. Vorta are capable of handling minor punishments like this. We’re designed to be.”

“ _Minor_ punishments?” Dukat resisted the urge to touch Weyoun’s injured side again, his fingers tightening on Weyoun’s shoulders instead. Harsh punishments were one thing - he’d dealt them out many times himself. Cardassia did not allow her soldiers to go soft. But the image of the woman whom Weyoun worshiped beating him for a minor infraction made his skin crawl. “So what happens when she’s truly angry at you?”

“It won’t come to that.” Weyoun lifted his head to meet Dukat’s eyes, studying his face. “You really are angry,” he observed. “You shouldn’t be. What happened was her right, and I accept it. I will strive to serve my Founders better in the future. That’s as it should be.”

“You’ve bent over backwards to make her happy since she got here,” Dukat murmured. “How could she punish you for that?” Dukat cupped Weyoun’s face in his hand, gently stroking his cheek with his thumb in a rare moment of tenderness. “If anyone else had hurt you like this…” The implied threat hung in the air, and Weyoun frowned.

“You mustn’t think that way. I belong to the Founders, not to you. I am disposable.” He spoke the words with such detached calm, a faint smile on his face, and Dukat’s heart clenched.

“You’re _not,_ ” the Cardassian growled, lowering his head to press his chufa against Weyoun’s smooth forehead. Weyoun stiffened, clearly recognizing the emotional intimacy of the gesture in Cardassian culture, something more than a kiss - and then shivered, as Dukat’s fingers ghosted along the edge of his ear. “What must I do to convince you of that?”

Weyoun didn’t answer, so Dukat kissed him and pulled away. Without a word he helped Weyoun into bed, pulling the blankets up around him and making sure he was comfortable before curling up beside him. Later, unable to sleep, Dukat lay beside the Vorta, watching his face as he slept. Gently he reached out to smooth down Weyoun’s hair, tucking an unruly lock back into place. He hated the thoughts that came to him on late nights like these - the bone-deep weariness, the discomfort he couldn’t quite shake, the memory of a different lonely and desolate lover failing to find comfort in his arms. 

“Would you leave with me?” he whispered. “Could you?”

He wouldn’t leave. Neither of them would. Dukat knew that - in the morning his confidence would return, his conviction that he was doing the right thing for Cardassia, for Ziyal, even for Weyoun. But right now all he could see was the Vorta’s battered form in bed beside him, how fragile he seemed, and questions he couldn’t answer plagued his mind as he fell into a restless sleep.


	3. Forced to Beg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weyoun will do anything to please his Founder. Anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: self-harm, abusive relationship, general ickiness you'd expect of a Weyoun/Founder ship

Being appointed to the role of the Founder’s personal aide was a great honor, but it came with far higher behavioral standards. Weyoun already knew as he walked into her quarters that she was displeased with him, so he wasn’t surprised when she rounded on him as soon as the door slid shut behind him.

“On the floor,” she snapped, and Weyoun dropped to his knees automatically, trying to hide his unease. He was still getting used to the fact that her punishments could be unpredictable; being disciplined by his superiors in the Dominion meant he knew what to expect, but the Founder didn’t have to follow procedure. She could do whatever she liked with him.

He tensed, head bowed, as she strode toward him - but she walked straight past him, as if she didn’t even see him. Weyoun hurried to follow her, crawling on his hands and knees because she hadn’t yet given him permission to stand. He had to attend to her at all times, even when he was made to stay on the floor. At any moment he expected her to turn on him, but she simply walked to her terminal and began going through the security reports. 

He was growing uneasy; this was unusual. Weyoun dared to lift his head, glance at her, but to all appearances she had forgotten he existed. But he didn’t dare move from his place on the floor at her side. Just when he thought that he couldn’t bear her silence any longer, that he’d _have_ to speak out, she turned and fixed her eyes on him. His back straightened.

“Well?” Her voice was testy, impatient, and Weyoun’s stomach gave a guilty lurch. Had she expected him to speak after all?

“Please,” he said softly, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered.

“Please _what?_ ” the Founder snapped.

“Punish me,” Weyoun said, fighting to keep his voice calm and steady. “Please punish me, my Founder, I’ve failed you--”

She held up a hand, cutting him off, and moved away. Staring at the floor, Weyoun heard her opening up the maintenance panel in the wall of her quarters and tensed, but when she returned to stand in front of him she only dropped the flux coupler on the floor in front of him. “I don’t have time to deal with you,” she told him curtly, and his stomach plummeted. “Handle it on your own, and do not disturb me. I have work to do.”

Hands shaking, Weyoun unfastened the top of his uniform, letting it fall open to expose his chest and collarbones. By the time he reached out to pick up the handheld tool, the Founder had already turned back to the console, ignoring him once again. He switched on the coupler, watching it begin to glow. The safety mechanism on the end had already been deactivated, of course, as attested by the small rectangular scars already littering his chest. It was a simple punishment. Convenient. Easier to carry out when she did not care to have him stripped down and whipped.

Shuddering, Weyoun pressed the white-hot end of the coupler against his own skin, just below his collarbone, and bit his lip hard to keep himself from crying out. She never did like it when he made too much noise. As the searing pain lanced through him he realized she had not told him how long to keep at it, how many marks to make. He did not dare seem unrepentant, so he knew he would have to simply continue until she remembered him again and told him to stop.

Time stretched on. The scent of his own burning flesh reached his nostrils and he shifted his hand, moving to an as-of-yet unmarked portion of skin. He flinched in spite of himself, and pressed the tool even harder against his chest to make up for the moment of weakness. It was difficult to think of anything beyond the pain, which was the point; he tried to imagine he could feel his own impurities burning away, leaving nothing but that which pleased the Founder, but even that thought was difficult to concentrate on. All he wanted was for it to stop. He couldn’t let himself.

After he’d made four marks and forced his trembling hand to begin burning a fifth, the Founder was suddenly in front of him, and Weyoun realized to his growing horror that he’d started to vocalize, a thin whimpering escaping the back of his throat without his knowledge. The burns hurt too much. He tried, unsuccessfully, to quiet himself. “I’m sorry,” he gasped out.

“Oh, Weyoun,” the Founder said, and he thought hopefully that she sounded more amused than angry. “Of course you are.” She reached out to touch his hair lightly and his whimper became a moan, overwhelmed by the slightest gentle contact. “Have you had enough?”

Had he? She hadn’t told him how far to go. He had no idea if he’d been punished severely enough yet, and he was terrified of seeming as if he was trying to get out of it. Mutely he shook his head, eyes wide, clutching the tool more tightly than ever. Gently the Founder took it from his grasp, and he waited, tense, for her to continue the punishment.

“Ask me,” she told him, gentle but firm.

He’d asked already, and she’d denied him, but he firmly pushed such thoughts out of his head. “Please carry out my punishment,” Weyoun whispered. “I- I’m not strong enough, but I need it, I disobeyed you, I…”

She was silent a moment, considering him, but then switched off the tool and dropped it. “No, I believe you’ve done enough. Thank you, Weyoun.”

Even though he’d been perfectly prepared to accept her judgment, knowing it would be just, Weyoun sagged with relief and bowed his head. “Th-thank you, Founder,” he murmured. “You are merciful.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “And you will obey me tomorrow, whatever I ask?”

“Of course, Founder,” he murmured. “Anything.”

She reached out to him then and gathered him into her arms, pulling him into her lap, and Weyoun shuddered with relief and contentment. He had not lost her favor after all. She touched no one else like this; he alone had the honor of being the one she held for comfort. Though he of course couldn’t be a substitute for the holy harmony of the Great Link, he would do whatever he could to ease her loneliness. With that in perspective, knowing how much she suffered, the pain of the burns on his chest felt like nothing. It was a price he would gladly pay to stay near her, as long as she wanted him.

“My loyal Weyoun,” she murmured in his ear, running her fingers through his hair. Her other hand found its way to his chest, lightly stroking the burns, and he tried not to flinch. “My favored one. Is there anything else you would ask of me?”

Pain mixed with pleasure as her hand dipped lower, thumbing the sensitive ridges in the center of his chest. Weyoun swallowed hard. “Only to be useful to you, Founder,” he whispered, his breath hitched. “It’s the only thing I want.”

And at times like these, still aching from being corrected but warmed by her perfection surrounding him, he believed it. His doubts would return, of course - he was merely Solid, weak and flawed - but she would draw him back, again and again, to his only true purpose. His gratitude felt much like the still-throbbing burns on his chest, searing other thoughts out of his mind. The Founder made a pleased sound like a low purr and drew him closer still, engulfing him, and Weyoun closed his eyes and let himself dissolve in the ecstasy of her favor. Truly, he was the most blessed among Vorta.


	4. Cry Into Chest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weyoun panics after his debriefing with Starfleet Intelligence, and Ezri tries to calm him down. Weyoun 6/Ezri (pre-relationship)

It could have been worse. That was what Weyoun kept telling himself as he left the debriefing with Starfleet Intelligence; considering what he had done in his previous lives, they would have been well within their rights to imprison him, torture him, no matter how Odo tried to reassure him that such brutal treatment wasn’t Starfleet’s way. But the debriefing had been civil, and Weyoun had complied completely, answering everything that was asked of him with total honesty. They were closer to trusting him, after everything he’d told them today. Even the guard on him had been reduced, and he’d been told that security was lifting some of the restrictions on his movements about the station.

He still couldn’t stop shaking.

Numbly he brushed off Odo’s concern, unable to bear the Founder’s sympathy at a time like this. Odo was the last person who should have sympathy for him. Weyoun was betraying everything he’d been made for, everything he believed in, and Odo’s people were going to pay the price. He hated himself for that, even as he knew it was necessary. The fact that this was the only way to save the Dominion didn’t remotely make up for the number of lives that would be lost as a direct consequence of his actions.

On his way back to his quarters, Weyoun made it as far as the turbolift before the full force of it hit him. In his mind’s eye he saw the pursuing Jem’Hadar ships exploding as the runabout firing on them, multiplied a hundredfold, a thousandfold. Loyal servants of the Dominion falling before Starfleet weapons, Vorta who had trusted him and Jem’Hadar who had obeyed him murdered for doing their duty because he’d revealed their locations–

Weyoun found himself folded into a corner of the turbolift, trembling uncontrollably, certain he was going to be sick. He was defective, a disgrace - he should have allowed his pursuers to find him and terminate him before he could give himself over to Odo. He should have terminated _himself_ the moment these traitorous thoughts entered his mind. Who was he, to question the Founders? Who was he to defy them? He could see _Her,_ crumbling and dying, hating him with every ounce of strength left in her, and she was _right._ She was always right. He was nothing, a speck of dust, worthless…

He was barely aware of the turbolift doors sliding open, the sound of surprise and dismay from the person who’d entered. There were warm hands on his shoulders, and he flinched, but whoever had found him didn’t try to hurt him, only held him and grounded him.

“Breathe,” spoke a voice, and Weyoun heard it as if from a great distance even if some part of him knew that another person was crouched right in front of him. The screaming hatred of all his gods roared far louder in his ears. “Just take deep breaths. In, out. Follow the sound of my voice. That’s it.”

He realized, dimly, that he recognized the voice, and recognized the concerned face in front of him. The Trill counselor, Ezri Dax, who he’d been seeing regularly since he was released from the infirmary. He wasn’t sure how much the counseling helped, but she was kind to him, and even apart from the fact that he’d been ordered to attend the sessions, the promise of seeing at least one person who didn’t hate him kept him returning. For a moment he could breathe easier, knowing she was there to help him, but then the sight of the Starfleet combadge on her chest reminded him of what he’d done and sent another wave of nausea crashing over him.

“Nope, no, we’re not doing that,” Ezri said, and as he felt her grabbing his hand and pulling it away from his face he realized he’d been digging his fingers fruitlessly into the scar where his termination implant had been. “You’re okay. You’re gonna stay with me, all right? It’s gonna be okay.”

Slowly she coaxed his tense, trembling frame into relaxing, easing him into her arms and holding him through the emotional storm. Weyoun found himself clinging to her, burying his face in her chest so he wouldn’t have to see her uniform and remember what she represented. His whole body shook with the force of his helpless sobs, his face wet with tears that were starting to soak the front of Ezri’s jacket.

“I’m killing them,” he gasped out, his voice choked. “I should have died, I’m a traitor and I’m killing them…”

Ezri stroked his back in slow, soothing circles, patiently letting him cry. “You’re saving lives, Weyoun,” she said softly. “You’re doing the right thing, and you’re so, so brave. You’re going to get through this.”

He didn’t really believe her, but the sound of her voice and the warm, solid sensation of being held were comforting nonetheless, and she stayed with him in the motionless turbolift until he quieted. As he came back to himself, Weyoun couldn’t help feeling some embarrassment that she had witnessed his breakdown, and he pulled back to wipe his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely, unable to meet her eyes.

She shook her head emphatically and reached out to touch the side of his face, smoothing back a lock of his hair with her thumb. “Don’t ever be sorry for needing help, all right?” Ezri told him seriously. “If you need anything - _anything_ \- I want you to call me. I’m your counselor, and I’m also your friend. I _want_ to help.”

Weyoun nodded, his breathing still hitched and shaky as he quietly dried his eyes. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

It was only later that it really registered what she’d said, and he turned over this new and fragile thing in his mind, hardly daring to trust it was real.

She’d called him her _friend._


	5. Vehicular Accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a shuttle crash, Weyoun is grievously injured.

Everything’s dark except for the faint red glow of the shuttle’s emergency lighting system, the only thing that still has power after the crash. Dukat grunts in pain, swimming back to consciousness, a loud ringing in his ears blocking almost everything else out. He’s been pinned under the remains of the shuttle’s console, his ankle throbbing with an intensity that suggests it’s broken. He feels blood trickling down the side of his face as he pulls himself free, trying to piece together what had happened.

The explosion. Someone had sabotaged their shuttle. An uncontrolled spiral into Cardassia’s atmosphere as their helmsman tried desperately to hold onto consciousness long enough to land them, a fight he eventually lost. Someone had been screaming.

_Weyoun_ had been screaming.

“Weyoun…!” Dukat’s voice cracked as he dragged himself free of the debris and began searching, sick fear rising in his throat. The shuttle is a mess, bulkheads torn to pieces and collapsed in on themselves. He can’t orient himself, can’t tell where Weyoun’s seat had once been. “Weyoun!”

He finds him trapped even more thoroughly than Dukat himself had been, utterly motionless, and Dukat’s heart is beating frantically in his chest as he desperately tries to pull Weyoun free. The Vorta’s body lies twisted at an unnatural angle, one of his legs crushed by a falling bulkhead. Abruptly Dukat stops trying to move him as he registers the way Weyoun’s back is bent at a more severe angle than it should be. His spine is broken. Dukat doesn’t dare try to move him until the medical team gets here, for fear of making the damage worse.

“Weyoun,” Dukat whispers, desperate, feeling for a pulse. “Weyoun, _answer me!”_

He stirs, finally, and Dukat almost regrets dragging him back to consciousness when he sees the spasm of pain cross the Vorta’s face. Weyoun looks up at him, and while he clearly recognizes him, his eyes look unfocused, the pupils dilated. “Skrain…” he whispers, his voice more of a gasp than anything else. “I don’t-- I can’t feel my legs…”

“Don’t try to move,” Dukat says, kneeling beside him and cradling Weyoun’s head in his hands to hold him still. “The shuttle crashed. Help will be here soon.” He hopes that’s true. They’d sent out a distress beacon as they crashed, but the shuttle’s systems had been failing, and he can only hope someone at Central received their message.

In spite of the instruction, one of Weyoun’s arms twitches, and with what seems to be a great effort he drags it up to press his fingers against his own jaw. Dukat recognizes what he’s doing and yanks his hand away, pins him down. “No,” Dukat says, voice trembling. “Don’t you dare.”

“‘M supposed to…” Weyoun’s normally eloquent voice is slurring, and Dukat thinks he must have a concussion. “I’m incapacitated--”

“You can still survive this,” Dukat tells him in a growl, shifting his grip on Weyoun’s wrist to grasp his hand instead. “I _order_ you to survive this.”

Weyoun lets out a breathy laugh, his head lolling back against Dukat’s leg. “Never… took orders from you, Skrain…” His eyes start to flutter closed, and Dukat squeezes his hand hard enough to bruise.

“Don’t fall asleep. Stay with me,” Dukat pleads, well aware he’s starting to sound almost pathetic in his desperation, completely letting go of the indifferent mask he’s always affected during his affair with Weyoun. At the moment he doesn’t really care. “ _Stay with me.”_

He can’t tell if Weyoun is still conscious by the time a rescue party arrives, led by Damar whose professionalism just barely covers his panic. But he’s still breathing, and he clings to that thought fiercely as the medical team begins first aid. He’s having a hard time staying conscious, himself. His hand shoots out, grabs the medic’s throat, though he’s far too weak for the gesture to be a real threat. “He’d better be here when I wake up,” he rasps. “You hear me? Don’t let him terminate--”

The last thing he’s aware of as he blacks out again is Weyoun’s limp hand, still held in Dukat’s tight grip even as his strength fails.


End file.
